


The Case Of The Drowning Evidence

by StarkRogers



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: BAMF John, Case Fic, Drowning, Gen, Kidnapping, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 05:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarkRogers/pseuds/StarkRogers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Copyright: This is an original work of fiction. Sherlock Holmes is public domain, making this piece of work legally mine. You may not reproduce or publish this work on any site or in any journal or any other form of media without my permission. </p><p> </p><p>Sherlock Holmes has gone missing while working on a case. Meanwhile, Scotland Yard goes to John Watson for help concerning another case. The two mysteries soon become one as Sherlock Holmes becomes the main suspect in a murder spree! Watson finds himself torn as The Yard pursues Holmes as their main suspect. As evidence mounts against the detective, Watson desperately searches. Can he find Holmes first? Can he solve this case before Scotland Yard arrests the world's only consulting detective? Whoever takes action, they must do it quickly. The evidence is drowning!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an older (about a year?) fic from the meme.

PROLOGUE

_His shoulders hurt. This is the first thing he is aware of, as consciousness slowly returns. And because they hurt, he tries to flex his arms, to relieve the tension and shift into a more comfortable position. It is then that he discovers his wrists also hurt. They are caught in something, held high above his head and he knows he should be able to tell exactly what, because who he is and all he knows is beginning to return to him. But it is all locked behind a thick veil of drugs that have yet to wear off completely, and so he is left at a level where he knows only that something is deeply, darkly wrong, and it is cold, and his arms hurt, and he cannot move them. Aching, straining to remember exactly who he is and why it so important to remember, to know, to think. But he cannot._

 

CHAPTER ONE

“Oh Doctor Watson! You have a visitor.”

John looked up from the Sunday newspaper as Mrs. Hudson knocked on the open door to the main sitting room of 221B Baker Street. He knotted his blond eyebrows and shook the paper ever so slightly. A cool yellow sun was barely peering in through the frost-glazed windows, giving an overly optimistic opinion of the generally dismal month of February. The table was set for two, tea saucers and cups placed as properly as they could be over stacks of papers and leather notebooks. The second teacup was unused, still waiting for a hand to lift the teapot and fill it. A hand that had been missing all night. A hand that Watson was sure the visitor outside would have preferred to see rather than his own. A hand belonging to Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective.

“Mrs. Hudson, are you sure they are here for me? I don’t wish to sound so humble, but visitors are not usually here to see me. Rather…” Watson trailed off, folding the paper in half as Mrs. Hudson shook her gray-haired head.

“Yes dear I know. They come for Mister Holmes. However, this young man has stated very clearly that it is you whom he seeks.” She looked at him intently, and he sighed.

“Well then, let the lad in, I suppose.” He stood, laying the paper on the cluttered table. He walked over to a grouping of chairs, arranged so that guests could comfortably seat themselves, have a sip of tea, and be interrogated by Sherlock Holmes while the detective reclined comfortably on the settee. “Can’t hurt to at least see what he wants,” Watson added with a murmur. He draped his hands over the back of the usual guest chair, looking to the door.

The man came in, looking around a bit expectantly. Watson’s first impression of the man was of someone most people would forget soon after meeting. He was unremarkable in ever way. Average face and hair, ordinary clothes, no overly distinguishing features.

“Good afternoon,” Watson said, offering him a selection of the seats. The man chose the chair Watson stood behind, as clients usually did. Watson sat in his own chair, facing the man. “I’m afraid Mister Holmes is unavailable at the moment.” Watson said as he pulled out his notebook and pencil. “However, I would be happy to take down your name and case. I’m terribly sorry you came all this way for nothing.”

“Came all this way? How do you know I’ve come so far?” The man asked, incredulous. Watson smiled.

“Simple really, if one is familiar with the methods of Sherlock Holmes. There is dried mud on your shoes, but wet mud on your right pants leg. The shoes could be muddy from yesterday, but they are well cared for, as are your clothes. It is unlikely you would let mud stay on your clothes for very long. So, you recently stepped in mud, but with enough time for it to dry completely. The splashes on your pants mean you were in an open hansom on a wet dirt road. It is fresh; thus it was acquired during the ride. Furthermore, it has not snowed in London for the past few days, yet I know the country north of here has received considerable amounts. Thus it is safe to conclude you travelled from up north in the country this morning at a considerable speed and quite without preamble, or else you would have taken the time to hire a covered hansom for the journey. Am I correct?” Watson smiled, for he could see on the man’s face that he was.

“Marvelous Dr. Watson! I daresay you would give Mr. Holmes a run for his money!” Watson’s smile grew sad as he retuned to fretting about the missing detective. Sherlock would have delighted at his little show just now.

“Yes, well I’m sure he would be able to tell ten times more than I,” Watson said. “In any event, please tell me your name, and why you’ve come.”

“Always so modest, Doctor. We have met before, but only briefly. I am Francis Newbury, the new head coroner at Scotland Yard. As for the matter, it is one of utmost importance, and one I feel more sure than ever that you will be of great assistance with.” Watson readied his notebook, and let Newbury speak uninterrupted.

“You are aware of the murder of the unidentified young lady the Yard has been investigating, furiously trying to solve.” Watson nodded.

“Of course I do. Mr. Holmes is…” Watson paused, hesitant to reveal much more. “Very interested,” he finished.

“I would not doubt it,” the guest replied. “However, the nature of the murder requires a more… medical touch, in my opinion. Couch-side speculations are most useful and showy, but there is something to be said for true fieldwork, isn’t there Doctor? You are both a doctor familiar with grisly death, and trained in Mr. Holmes’ methods of deduction!” Flattery was not as strong a tool against Watson as it as with Homes, but he wasn’t completely above it. He smiled a bit, and nodded.

“Alright, I’m interested. Can you give me more details?” The coroner explained for him the physical monstrosities of the woman’s death, sparing no detail. Finally he leaned in over the coffee table as if afraid the walls could ear.

“We’ve found another body. It’s the same style, but this one wasn’t dismembered! It’s nearly a complete specimen! Doctor, even Mr. Holmes hasn’t had an opportunity to see this quality of evidence in the case up close!” he said in an excited whisper. Watson sighed. As excited as he was to see the body, he knew that Holmes would be able to learn so much more, were he and Watson to work together.

“Would it be possible to hold the body on ice until Mr. Holmes returns?” Watson asked, but the coroner began shaking his head almost immediately.

“I’m afraid not, Dr. Watson. The family has allowed us to keep the remains for one day only, and on the sole condition that you would be the doctor to examine her. They say they know you, Doctor Watson, and that it should be you who does it.” Watson’s heart pounded in his chest. A young lady he possibly knew? Holmes and Watson had assisted many young women; to imagine one of them now dead brought a chill to the sitting room no fireplace could remove. It was as if someone had opened one of the windows and let the cold winter air blow in.

“What is the name?” Watson asked, his pencil and paper forgotten in his hands.

“The young lady’s name was Helen Stoner”, the coroner replied, and Watson closed his eyes for a moment. He remembered her name well. He and Holmes had saved her from a most devious fate suffered first by her sister, and it was nearly upon her when he and Holmes finally solved the crime. He still never looked at bell ropes the same way.

“I see,” Watson said. “Such tragedy has visited that family.” The coroner nodded; the case of The Speckled Band was well known, as was Holmes’ and Watson’s involvement due to the doctor’s publications on it.

“Well then, I certainly can’t refuse, even if I had any reason to want to.” Watson undoubtedly didn’t.

“Shall we be off then?” Mr. Newbury asked, standing. Watson stood with him, nodding.

“Absolutely,” Watson answered.

“I will wait for you downstairs,” the coroner replied, and grabbed his coat to leave. As Watson gathered his things he heard the door downstairs open and close. He cocked his head to the side as he heard a new voice. It was too muffled to decipher the words, but he heard Mr. Newbury, Mrs. Hudson, and the Detective Inspector Lestrade all talking. The Inspector spoke with an element of surprise and even anger. Watson leaned against the door and tried to listen in.

“- doing here?” came Lestrade’s voice. The client spoke in a calmer tone, and Watson could not decipher the words. A moment later, Lestrade spoke again.

“Out! You had no right! You’ve no more business here. The Yard has things completely under control.” Watson quirked an eyebrow. The Yard rarely had things as under control as they liked to brag. Watson heard Mrs. Hudson saying something, then the door to her kitchen opened and shut. Angry footsteps mounted the stairs, and Lestrade entered the flat. He had a sour expression on his small, found face.

“I assume he offered to show you the latest body.” He said with no introduction. Watson nodded. Lestrade growled, and then sighed in resignation.

“You know I hate to admit it, but we really could use your expertise, and that of Mr. Holmes.”

“I can only offer my own at the moment,” I said, explaining again that Holmes was missing. Lestrade nodded briskly.

“You’ll have to do, then. Meet me – and my coroner – downstairs when you’re ready.” He replied. He turned to the door, looking back at Watson at the last moment. “And thank you for your time in advance, Dr. Watson. You truly are a help to us.” Watson nodded with a smile, and finished gathering his surgery and exam supplies. Before he left, he wrote a note to Holmes, in case the detective made it home before Watson returned.

“Dear Sherlock,  
I’ve gone to assist the Yard RE. your current case.  
You would be welcome to come, and I think you  
would find it most interesting."  
                                                            - J. H. W

 

INTERLUDE

_From the Journal of G. Lestrade:_

_Feb 12_

_That blasted coroner! He came highly recommended but at this point I almost don’t care. We hired him on just before our newest case and he’s caused no end of trouble since then. The lad is fresh out of medical school and seems to think he knows how to do my job better than I do! “Why aren’t the police doing this, why a haven’t you done that yet?” and most infuriatingly, “Why isn’t Mr. Sherlock Holmes helping you?” Did I mention the boy is an avid fan of Mr. Holmes’ work? Who isn’t these days, aside from The Yard? He had the audacity to flee our current crime scene in a hansom this morning, saying only that he was going to retrieve some “expert help”. I knew exactly where he was headed, and flagged down the next cab to follow._

_Sadly, the boy is right. We could use the detective’s help here. These poor women… and the one is a previous client of Mr. Holmes’. As of yet, we have no clue as to the identity of the first woman. I wonder now if I should not narrow my search to families Mr. Holmes has helped in the past. A serial killer targeting Mr. Holmes’ old clients? They must be trying to get his attention, which seems like a sure-fire way to get oneself caught. Once Mr. Holmes returns we will surely see a swift end to this case. For now, we have an autopsy to perform._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Autopsies and intrigue!

CHAPTER TWO

  
They arrived at the Yard a short time later. Doctor Newbury spent the drive over explaining in detail what he knew of their first victim.   
  
“She was dismembered at the joints for the easiest removal, but with no finesse.” Newbury said as the rattled along.  “It would seem as if our killer has a knowledge of anatomy, but no real doctoring experience.” Watson’s eyebrows knotted at this. A butcher seemed like a strong possibility, for he could think of no other profession that would lend itself to such anatomical knowledge without the person being a practicing doctor. He puzzled over it until they arrived at The Yard.

The newest body had already been brought in and lay on the exam table. On another table beside the young lady’s body laid the unidentified remains of the first woman. It was a scattered collection of limbs, placed on the table in a general configuration of a body. The head was missing. Lestrade watched from a distance with a notebook in hand as Watson and Newbury prepared for the autopsy. The room was silent aside from the clattering of metal on metal as the two doctors set out their instruments. Newbury rolled up his sleeves to begin, and as the two doctors faced each other over the table, Watson noted something on the coroner’s arm.   
  
“That’s quite a bruise you have there,” Watson commented, running a hand down the woman’s arm, checking for broken bones. “A note Lestrade: ligature marks on her wrists, thick… possibly rope, shackles or something of that nature.”  
   
“I’d say a shackle,” replied Newbury, turning over the other wrist as well. “And oh yes.” He added, with a bit of surprise. He inspected the woman’s fingernails next, scrutinizing them. “There was a bit of a scuffle at the restaurant last night… Inspector, I’m noting her fingernails are broken. Most of the ones on the left here. How about the right, Doctor Watson?”   
  
“Same on the right.” Watson waved to Lestrade, and then turned back to Newbury. “Do continue, please.” He added, continuing with his visual inspection down her legs to her feet.  
  
“The owner dragged a rough looking man out after he hassled me and frightened the customers. He grabbed me on the arm quite fiercely, as if frightened of me. His eyes… I won’t soon forget them.” He said, looking up and catching Watson’s gaze for a moment. The moment passed, and he spurred into action once more. “Help me roll her.” He said with a wave of his hand. The two doctors worked together, turning the woman’s body on her side towards Watson. Newbury completed a quick exam of her back before they set her back down. “That’s where the bruise came from. He has quite a grip.”  
  
“But why would he have been afraid of you?” Watson asked perplexed, moving to the woman’s head. He opened her eyes gently, then her mouth. He frowned, and motioned to Lestrade. “Bring more light over here for a moment Lestrade.” The Inspector complied, and Watson tilted his head, peering down the woman’s throat. “Ooh, definitely raw. Take a look, Doctor,” he said, giving Newbury the space to look.   
  
“Heavens, raw indeed.” Newbury paused, thinking. “Inhaling water won’t do that on its own.” Watson looked grimly at the body.  
  
“No. But prolonged screaming for help can do it.” His eyes flicked up to Newbury to judge his reaction. The coroner looked a bit bothered by the idea, and Watson judged that to be a good sign. “I saw much of that in Afghanistan. There’s nothing you could have done.” He added, and Newbury relaxed a bit. “I’m sorry. Do you have any idea why this fellow was so frightened of you?” He asked again, turning and picking up a large scalpel.  
  
“My involvement with the police and the current case of the dismembered woman is rather well known,” Newbury said. He reached out and took the scalpel from Watson, leaning down over the body. Lestrade grumbled and piped up from across the room.  
  
“Indeed. A newspaper caught wind of the fact that we have a new coroner, and that he has helped reveal important details about our nameless victim. And you two are moving on to the internal exam now?”  
  
“Oh, yes. Quite sorry Inspector.” Newbury replied, looking up. He had drawn a Y shaped trio of lines down the woman’s chest to her navel with the scalpel, and flesh pulled away from the cut. Watson assisted him in opening the cavity. “In any event, it was nothing special. I simply employed some of Sherlock Holmes’ techniques.” He said, looking across at Watson, who was pinning back a flap of skin to reveal the woman’s ribs. Watson quirked an eyebrow at him. “Of what remained of the young lady, I was able to determine what tool had been used to dismember her, and identify the actual cause of her death.” He said, pinning back the skin on his side of the body.  
  
Lestrade interrupted. “Which everyone present is aware of.”  
  
“Drowning, correct?” Watson asked. He reached back to the tray of tools again, pulling out a sinister looking clamp and handing it over to Newbury. Lestrade and the coroner nodded in reply.  
  
“And I have reason to believe our newest victim died in much the same way. Oh, Lestrade, you may wish to look away for a moment here…” Newbury said as he inserted the clamp between two of the woman’s ribs. Together, he and Watson spread the clamp and the ribs, holding them open and revealing her chest cavity. Lestrade looked slightly green.  
  
“Let us hope this revelation does not bring about more danger for you, coroner.” said Watson, rummaging around, feeling the heart and prodding the lung. “A bit heavy…” He thought for a moment. “You aren’t thinking that the man who assaulted you could be the murderer?” He asked suddenly, looking up at Newbury. The coroner shrugged, reaching in as Watson withdrew his hands to feel the heft of the lung.  
  
“It is possible, but that seems like quite a fantastic coincidence, does it not?” He shook his head, disbelieving. “Yes, quite hefty, as one would expect with a drowning. Filled with water no doubt.” Watson nodded towards Lestrade in agreement.  
  
“I concur, Inspector. But it is not so fantastic if the man were looking for you.” Watson said to Newbury, helping with the removal of the clamp.   
  
“A guilty conscience will catch a criminal nine times out of ten,” said Lestrade. “It wouldn’t surprise me too much if it were him.” Watson nodded and then pointed at Newbury with a set of scalpels. Newbury took them, setting himself to the woman’s stomach.  
  
“You should be more careful. One thing working with Mr. Holmes has taught me is caution.” Watson added, helping to hold stray organs and tissues out of the way as the coroner cut a slit in the woman’s stomach. It seemed his warning went a bit unnoticed as the coroner suddenly shouted out.  
  
“Mary! What on earth…!” From the woman’s stomach he pulled a sizable vial, filled with a sodden piece of paper, folded in quarters and then rolled. Watson’s eyebrows drew together instantly, and he reached up and grabbed the glass vessel.   
  
“This is impossible; that’s far too large for someone to swallow! How on earth did it get in her stomach?” He asked, turning it around in his hand. Newbury reached over and tried to snatch it back, his hands shaking.   
  
“Never mind that! They could have shoved it down her throat or some such. What on earth does the note say?” He asked excitedly as Watson took a step back, keeping it out of reach. He twisted the top off and drew out the letter. Even Lestrade had drawn in close at this point, and the room grew silent as the three men huddled over the woman’s cold body.  
  
“Well?” Blurted out Lestrade, unable to contain his curiosity. Watson had turned white. He spoke in a voice so quiet they could barely hear him.  
  
“It’s… from Holmes.”

INTERLUDE

  
_He wakes once more, and for the briefest of moments panics. He can not remember having fallen unconscious. With a grunt he attempts to rise, and his head swims. Small noises break from his mouth as he reassesses his condition. Wet. Very wet and cold. Water everywhere. His nostrils flare as a second wave of alarm passes over him. Darkness, and a smell of damp burlap. His mouth is filled with something wet, tight and painful, digging into the corners of his mouth. A whimper escapes before he can stop it and he thrashes, trying to pull himself out of the freezing water, away from the darkness, to breathe properly without something obstructing his mouth. He is yanked back to the floor as his momentum is halted by something tied around his wrists. They are caught behind his back, and there is water everywhere. He is soaked through to the bone. He is almost completely immobilized, and for a moment can do nothing but lay and breathe deeply and quickly in the cold water, his chest aching._   
  
_His mind begins to clear soon, and he realises that he's not going to drown in what seems to be about an inch or two of water. He tries judging the depth with his hands but it is difficult, as they seem to have gone numb. That is a problem, he decides. With more care this time, he sits himself up. He can feel water falling on him from somewhere above, splashing all around. It is freezing and smells rather putrid. The gag in his mouth is soaked with it and he can taste it, nauseatingly. He lifts his hands out of the water and stuffs them in the back of his trousers, trying to warm them up. They'll be of no use picking the lock on the shackles if he can't feel his fingertips. As he sits, his mind sharpens, and he begins to think. Sack off head first, then gag. Then shackles. In the meantime, he needs to remember how he ended up here, and why he seems to be wearing someone elses' clothing..._


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

  
"FROM HOLMES? But how can that be?"  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"What on earth does it say?"  
  
Lestrade's and Newbury's voices were barely heard above the rush of blood in Watson's head. The note had most definitely been penned by Holmes’ hand; the strokes were long and firm, the flourishes pragmatic and simple. Yet as Watson stared, the letters seemed to waver. He could almost see Holmes' hand shaking as he wrote it, splattering ink on the page as his hand shook while wetting the nib with ink once more. A hand was on his wrist then, and he was snapped out of his silent horror, looking up at Lestrade.

“Watson. Are you sure it's Holmes’ writing?”   
  
Watson nodded, and handed the note to Lestrade who took it gently, looking down at it. The Detective Inspector read it for a moment, his eyebrows knotting together.   
  
“But this is... What is Holmes saying?” he asked, looking up at Watson and quirking an eyebrow. Watson shrugged with his face, pressing his lips together with incredulity. Newbury took the note next, and read it aloud.

_“I Am Most Interested, Now. This Has England’s Best Adventurers Searching Every Mark Enthusiastically! Now Then, Of The Hint Everyone Should Examine, Can Old Nannies Deduce? Hardly! Out, Useless Sleuths - Engage!”_

 “It does seem like nonsense,” Watson said with a heavy voice. “Is Holmes trying to help us?” Lestrade shook his head with a short laugh.

“It does seem like him, to help us in such a perverse way. And to insult us in the process!” the Inspector spat, pointing to the last line. “And why on earth is he talking about nannies?” Watson's face pinched together as he tried to think. There was Mrs. Hudson, but what on Earth could she know about this case? Something was wrong with all of this; Holmes would never disrespect the life of a person just to deliver a jesting message, even if the intent was to help them out. He shook his head, taking a deep breath to chase away the last of the shock from seeing the message. He looked up at both of them, and spoke pointedly.  
  
“I think we need to pay Mrs. Hudson a visit.”

~~~

“Where is Holmes supposed to be, anyway?” Lestrade asked Watson as the two of them bounced along in the police cab. “I assume you know more than you let on.”  
  
Watson knotted his eyebrows, debating whether or not to reveal what he knew. Holmes had been missing almost two days now, and with the note...  
  
“He was under cover for the case of you first drowning victim,” Watson finally said. “He knows her identity; her family came to us when she first went missing.”   
  
Watson felt bad for withholding so much important information from Lestrade for so long, and the Detective’s face show his displeasure.  
  
“That cad knew this whole time? I’d be willing to wager he knows who the murderer is too; and while he’s been gallivanting off through London’s underground the villain struck again! I wouldn’t be surprised it Mr. Holmes let him, just so –”  
  
“Mr. Lestrade! I assure you, Holmes is many things, but careless with the lives of others he is not. He may appear to be, but I’ve never known him to let someone be hurt just to solve a case. Not too badly, at any rate.” Lestrade just shook his head.  
  
“He could be dead you know. Dead who knows where! – and unidentifiable, in those silly costumes of his. Buried in a pauper’s grave by now.”  
  
Watson pressed his lips together tightly and looked out the window.  
  
“Thank you, Lestrade. I feel so much better now.”  
  
Lestrade looked at Watson, saw the lines of worry on his face, and noted how tired he looked. His shoulders sagged.  
  
“I’m sorry John,” Lestrade sighed deeply. “I’m as worried as you are. I just tend to take it out on Holmes when he gets himself into these types of situations. And I don’t have Gregson or Newbury here to yell at.” Watson and Lestrade chuckled slightly as the police cab drew up to the flat at 221B Baker Street and stopped.  
  
They mounted the steps and knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door. Watson and Lestrade looked at each other nervously as they waited. A worrisome thought had crept through Watson's stomach on the ride over, and he only hoped it wasn't true. The seconds seemed to stretch into eternity. Watson knocked again, and his heart quickened when a few more seconds ticked by and they got no answer.   
  
“Mrs. Hudson? Are you in? It’s Doctor Watson.” He grabbed the door handle and twisted, but it was locked. He pressed his lips together, and nodded to Lestrade. They both took a step back from the door, and with one strong, swift motion, Watson kicked the door in.   
  
“I’m sorry for the intrusion, Mrs. Hudson,” he called out, just in case the poor woman had simply been asleep. There was no answer, and after another silent nod Lestrade entered the apartment first, gun drawn. Watson followed, pulling out his own revolver.   
  
The apartment was impeccably clean and seemed to be in much the same condition as the few times he had seen it. As Watson walked by the front bay window he glanced outside, and saw the second police cab drawing up.   
  
“The rest of the party is here, Lestrade,” he called out, and the Inspector nodded, stepping out from one of the bedrooms.  
  
“It's clear. No one’s here, John.” They both stared at each other for a long moment, sharing the same worries until they heard feet climbing the stairs to the flat. They turned as a few more of the Yard entered, accompanying Newbury.   
  
“I take it from the front door that she wasn't here,” the coroner said, looking to the both of them. They nodded. “I’m sorry,” he replied, and looked out the same window as Watson for a moment. “I’ll let you two alone for a moment. Collect yourselves. We can handle this for now,” he said with a soft, sympathetic smile. Lestrade waved him off and walked to the window with Watson. He sighed deeply.  
  
“The bastard. Whoever he is, we’ll catch him. I swear it.” He looked down at Watson, who continued to stare out the window. His blue eyes were the color of steel.  
  
“We will indeed.”  
  
“We've got something!” came a suddenly cry from the back bedroom, and the inspector and doctor shot to their feet. An officer walked into the sitting room holding a piece of paper with a type-written note on it. “It's the strangest thing. Found it folded on her bed,” the officer said, handing the paper over to Lestrade. He held it between himself and Watson, and they read it. 

_“Hello detectives! I think we should play a game; I am so tremendously bored. Though it appears you are a bit behind: I’ve already made my first four moves. Best get a move on, then. You see, my hiding place has a bit of a leak... If you don't hurry, all of the evidence will drown! Now, to find your friends you're going to have to find the murderer first, and I'd start with what you already know. No more hints for now! That would spoil the game.”  
_

  
Watson's face twisted with fury. “Bored? A game!? What psychopath plays a game with human lives?!” He stormed out of the flat and out into the street, Lestrade close on his heels.   
  
“John! Calm down!” He grabbed the doctor’s arm, turning him around. “Calm down old boy. The note seems to imply they're both still alive. We have time to find them. If this is a game then the man behind it is going to want to draw us as close to the solution as possible; we should use this to our advantage!” Watson shook furiously, taking deep breaths to calm himself. He managed a nod, and Lestrade patted him on the arm. “Alright then. Let's go collect what we know.” They turned, and reentered the flat.  
  
This man was going to pay. It was beyond personal.  
  
They spent several more hours pouring through Mrs. Hudson’s rooms, searching for any evidence as to who had taken the kind woman, or where they had taken her to. Watson couldn’t help but wish in the back of his mind that Holmes would come bursting in through the door and whisk them all away to reveal the master behind this plot, and then profusely apologize for having kept them in the dark. Again. Eventually Lestrade came over to the doctor, placing a hand on his shoulder.  
  
“I don’t think there’s anything to find here, Doctor Watson. I think you should see the scene we discovered this morning. Perhaps we’ll find something we missed?” the Inspector asked. Watson nodded.  
  
“Take me there,” he said simply.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

  
THE POLICE CAB BOUNCED along as they rode toward the crime scene. Watson sat quietly, enveloped in his own thoughts until Lestrade spoke up.  
  
“Doctor Watson, have you considered the possibility that Holmes has… organized this whole plot?” 

Watson didn’t respond, and continued to stare out the window. Lestrade continued hesitantly. “The evidence supports it. The note in the body, the victims both being his previous clients, and now we have poor Mrs. Hudson! She was taken from her own rooms with no sign of a struggle. She was a cautious woman, living with you and Holmes. She knew not to follow a stranger. Who else then could have had her trust, Watson?” The doctor pressed his lips together, and spoke.  
  
“I don’t know, I just know it couldn’t be him.”  
  
“Maybe he finally got too bored. How long has it been since his last case?” Lestrade asked. Watson grimaced.  
  
“A bit. Until the first girl’s family came to us a day ago.”  
  
“And it just so happens that a mere day after their daughter went missing, the family conveniently decided to contact Sherlock Holmes, thus ending his boredom,” Lestrade concluded. Watson shook his head fervently.  
  
“No!” He buried his face in his hands. “God, I know how bad this looks but I swear you’re looking down the wrong path Lestrade!” He looked up, pleading. The inspector just pressed his lips together, and looked away. A few minutes of silence later, the cab drew to a halt outside the small farmhouse the second girl had been found. The sun was setting as they alighted from the cab and entered the front rooms. Watson looked around, wandering from room to room as the inspector spoke to his officers on duty.   
  
In a back bedroom upstairs Watson noted something curious. The wallpaper was peeling, and when he placed a hand against it, the wall was cold and damp. He walked out of the room and looked down the hall, only to see that a bathroom was on the other side of the wall.   
  
“Pipes then...” he muttered to himself. “Just pipes.” He sighed, running his hands through his hair. “Just bloody ordinary pipes. “ He was so desperate to find something, anything at all that he was seeing apparitions of clues in pipes! He headed downstairs, deciding he’d best stop before he tried finding clues in the curtains.  
  
“Ah, good to see you Doctor!” a new yet familiar voice said as Watson came off the last step.   
  
“Good evening, Doctor Newbury,” Watson replied, shaking the coroner’s hand. Lestrade and a few other officers were assembled in the room, looking at something strewn over the dinner table.  
  
“I was just about to call you down,” the coroner added, leading Watson over to the table. “We’ve found something. Something very interesting.” Lestrade took a step back as Watson approached the table. The doctor’s blood turned to ice. He barely heard what the coroner said next, in an excited high-pitched voice.  
  
“That’s the jacket the man was wearing!”  
  
“What man?” Watson asked idly, still staring at the jacket. It couldn’t be. Not here.  
  
“The man! The one who grabbed me at dinner last night. The rough-looking man?” Newbury clarified, giving Watson an odd look that the doctor completely ignored.  _This wasn’t possible; it wasn’t happening._  
  
“I’ll be damned Newbury,” Lestrade piped up, sounding pleased. “I told you a guilty heart will catch a criminal! We’ve got the fellow now! You’ve seen him and could surely identify him. We’ve got all the witnesses in the restaurant. In fact… ah, but it’s too late tonight to go bothering the owner.” Watson looked over at Lestrade, a glazed look on his face.  
  
“An innocent woman is missing Inspector! Every second is precious,” Newbury exclaimed.   
  
“And we should do our best to make those seconds count,” answered Lestrade. “Disturb a man late at night when he’s ill of temper and I guarantee he won’t remember a lick of what happened the day prior. No. We’ll wait and do this proper-like, tomorrow morning.” Newbury seemed to deflate. Watson looked back down at the jacket, all but oblivious to their quarrel.  
  
“Are you sure, Lestrade?” Newbury asked one more time.  
  
“Yes. And I won’t have you gallivanting about by yourself again, Newbury! You’re too valuable, and this man is still about. He knows you. We’ll post a guard at your house tonight. I’m not taking any more chances,” he said, looking at Watson meaningfully. The doctor finally looked up and met the inspector’s eyes. He spoke in a monotone voice, nodding with Lestrade.  
  
“I agree. You may be his next target, Newbury. It would be logical to assume such a thing.”  
  
Newbury shrugged, and the trio decided to disperse for the night. As Watson drove home in a cab to 221B, he reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out Holmes’ note from inside the woman’s stomach. He tuned the note over and over in his hands, as if some answer would reveal itself on the reversed writing. He needed anything to keep his mind off of the jacket. Watson had recognized it as well. It was a costume piece he was very familiar with. It belonged to none other than Holmes.  
  
“Holmes… where are you? What is all this?” The note did not answer.

~~~

Watson pushed open the front door of 221B. It was silent: more quiet than he had ever heard it be. The flat echoed with emptiness. Dark shadows played along the papered walls of the narrow hallway. The floorboards creaked as he walked by the broken-in door to Mrs. Hudson’s flat. He placed a hand on the shattered doorframe for a moment, and stared into the dark rooms. Items were scattered about, fading in and out of view in the moonlight. A police investigation was not a gentle act, and the Yard had been extra thorough in this case. He stepped inside slowly, reverently, as if this small act of violating the housekeeper’s space was more of an offense than the afternoon’s loud invasion.   
  
“I’m sorry Mrs. Hudson… We’ve made a bit of a mess.” He gently righted a small statuette on a coffee table, and looked around with a deep sigh. He wanted to say more, but it suddenly felt like his presence in her rooms was no longer appropriate. He backed out and gave the doorframe a helpless pat before mounting the steps to his own rooms.   
  
As he passed the kitchen however, he felt a frigid breeze streaming in from under the door. He frowned and pushed heavily against the door as cold air flooded the hallway. He quickly found the reason for the cold: the back door of the kitchen was open to the night air. He closed the hallway door behind him and strode across the kitchen to shut the back door. Then he leaned against the counter and pressed his lips together. A coincidence, perhaps? Had one of the Yard come through this way and left the door open? Watson looked at the floor of the kitchen, at the doorframe, at the counters. He saw nothing, and eventually gave up, settling in to make himself some tea, since he was in the kitchen anyway. As he waited for the water to boil he took out Holmes’ note and stared at it. After several minutes the kettle screeched, and he was no closer to a miraculous revelation. He stuffed it back in his jacket and made his tea.  
  
“Damn it Holmes…” He carried his tea upstairs, tossed his overcoat onto the settee and sank into his favorite chair, burying his face in his hands. Gods, so much had transpired today… His worry for Holmes had gone from mild irritation to full blown terror, and now to top things off and really drive him neurotic, Mrs. Hudson was also missing! He couldn’t help but think that if someone wanted to drive him mad, they were doing an excellent job at it. He could only assume Holmes was having a much better time at it than he.   
  
“If this is all part of a game to you Holmes, I will murder you myself,” he growled, pulling the note found so many hours ago in the morgue. Holmes’ curling pen strokes stared up at him as the full moon streamed in through the opened drapes. Watson chewed a corner of his moustache in frustration. He took a few warm sips of his tea, and the note swam in his vision. He closed his eyes for just a moment to rest them. He opened them again, but the note only seemed farther away. He dug his knuckles into his eyes, trying to focus. A nanny, the note mentioned a nanny. Obviously Mrs. Hudson, if the note really was Holmes’ work. And who else could it be? He shook his head, trying to clear his vision. Perhaps there was a code… his thoughts became disjointed, and he found himself wondering about Mrs. Hudson’s apartment. The door had been locked, but there was no doubt Holmes could have managed to get through one of the windows. And the note! “I was bored”. Such a Holmes thing to say! And what of Holmes’ jacket in the house of the second murder? If the whole thing was a set up, it was an ingenious one. Whoever orchestrated it was brilliant and cunning.  
  
“A true challenge for you, Holmes…” Watson muttered, before his eyes closed once more.

~~~

“Good night, Detective Inspector,” said Newbury, tightening his scarf around his neck. He had spent the last hour or so inspecting the bodies for more evidence, but come up dry. Lestrade had spent the time doing research as well, though he wouldn’t tell Newbury about it when he asked.  
  
“Good night, Newbury.” Lestrade paused for a moment, putting on his coat. “And… good work today. Even the running off bit. We do need you, without Holmes… we need an analytical mind like yours.”  
  
Newbury looked embarrassed. “It’s nothing, really sir. I am still a novice compared to yourself. I shouldn’t have run off this morning. It was foolish and unprofessional.” Lestrade shook his head.  
  
“Nonsense. I think your impulsiveness may be the breath of fresh air the Yard needs, Doctor.” He shook a finger at the coroner. “Just give me a bit of warning next time. Only Holmes can get away with not telling me anything!” Newbury smiled and nodded, pulling on his gloves.  
  
“See you tomorrow then, Inspector.” He strode out the door and into the cold night air. Lestrade stood in the doorway for a moment, thinking.  
  
“I hope it’s not you Holmes. But if it is, by God Doctor Newbury is going to give you a run for your money!”   


INTERLUDE

From The Journals of G. Lestrade:

_The investigation is difficult, but I feel we are closing in on our man fairly soon. Tomorrow we speak to the restaurant owner, and he will surely provide us with plenty of information. If not, I have a few cards up my sleeves._

_Perhaps we have become too dependent on Mr. Holmes. Yet here we are, responsible for saving him! That, or condemning him. I hate to admit how damning the evidence is. I cannot let my affections cloud my vision. However, I do not think I can depend on John Watson to be as open minded. The poor man is refusing to admit Holmes could be the killer. That loyalty could get in the way of our investigation. Perhaps it already has. That may be the real reason Holmes is “missing”. I should honestly expect no less from him. A man can only hope to find as loyal of a friend as Dr. Watson, even once in our lives. I will have to speak to him tomorrow… if I cannot trust him, then I must watch him as a suspect._


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

WATSON WOKE TO A pounding on his door. His eyebrows knotted as he flailed in the large armchair, sinking briefly before snatching at the note falling off his thigh and propping up the cold cup of tea his gyrations had rattled. Where in the blazes was Mrs. Hudson? Why hadn’t she heard the person pounding at the door? Watson slithered out of the chair and onto his feet. He made it three steps to the door before memories from the day before pushed their way out of the haze of his half-asleep brain. His legs nearly gave out beneath him and he fell against the door with a thud, and the knocking stopped. 

“Doctor Watson?” came a voice from behind the door, concern tainting the clear high tenor of Inspector Lestrade.   
  
“Just a moment!” Watson rasped, his throat rough. He coughed to clear it while attempting to fix his hopelessly wrinkled shirt and pants. Finally he opened the door, and there stood the Inspector. “Morning, Inspector.” Lestrade quirked an eyebrow, looking Watson over.  
  
“Even I don’t need Holmes’ skills to notice you didn’t make it to bed last night,” the Inspector said. Watson cleared his throat again and pulled at his shirt helplessly. Then Lestrade noticed the note in Watson’s hand. “Working, I see. Learn anything?”  
  
Watson looked down at the note like he had forgotten it was there. “What? No, unfortunately.” He went to stuff it back in his jacket, but Lestrade held out his hand. Watson looked at the Inspector quizzically.   
  
“It’s official evidence John. I can’t have you running around with it.”   
  
Watson made to protest, but then just sighed and handed it over. “This is ridiculous Lestrade. You’ve never not trusted me with evidence in the past.” He knew why though, and the way Lestrade squirmed confirmed it. “Well?” He didn’t really want to hear it. He couldn’t even admit it to himself.  
  
Lestrade stared at the note for a moment in silence. “Tell me honestly, John. You haven’t spoken to Holmes?” Lestrade grabbed the doctor’s shirt roughly, pulling him close. “Haven’t been out all night providing for him?” Watson looked pained and confused.  
  
“What? No! Of course not! How, how could you think that? I’m as lost as you are when it comes to where he’s gotten off to.”  
  
“John… if it is Holmes, will you be able to turn him in? Will you truly be able to watch these close around his wrists?” Lestrade asked, releasing his shirt and holding up his pair of handcuffs. “Can I trust you?” His dark eyes searched Watson’s pleading. Watson stared back, his hands held in fists, shaking.  
  
“Don’t ask me that, Lestrade. Don’t accuse me of this!”  
  
“I have to, John!” Lestrade snapped, his face crumbling as his small dark eyes looked up at the doctor. “I should cut you out of this investigation this instant! You’re a liability John. Your loyalty is clouding your judgment.” He looked down in shame, clenching the note. Watson’s face was that of stone. Lestrade rubbed his hand over his mouth roughly, turning away for a moment. “Then again, if you are involved, the best place for you is where I can see you.” He looked back at Watson, pressing his lips together. “Please John, don’t force me to arrest you. I want to believe you. And damn me if I still don’t trust you.”  
  
“We both want to find Holmes,” Watson finally replied. Lestrade looked up at him. “I need your help to find him. You need my help to find this killer. I think we can trust each other that far.” The Inspector still looked pained, but he nodded, and stepped out of Watson’s doorway.  
  
“And if it is Holmes?” Lestrade asked, standing in the hall.  
  
“I’ll see you downstairs in a few minutes, Inspector,” Watson replied, and Lestrade nodded. It would have to do, for now.  


INTERLUDE

_The sack is still on his head; he’d tried to loop his legs through his arms but he is simply too exhausted: he can’t coordinate his body. He is instead working at the handcuffs, slowly squeezing his hands painfully through the unforgiving metal half-circles. The water seems to be rising. He measures its depth using the metal hook he’s chained to. It’s a few inches high. Before, the water was below the top of the loop. Now, the water is higher. He mentally chastises himself for the simplicity of his thoughts, but he can’t focus beyond vague generalities at the moment._   
  
_He remembers things now, flashes of things. He has no time to let his mind wander aimlessly but the cold and exhaustion renders him incapable of focusing for longer than a few minutes at a time. During one such mental sojourn he seems to distinctly remember dreaming of Mrs. Hudson. What he imagines is not pleasant and he shakes his head vigorously, refusing to accept the memory._

~~~

Watson was hopeful for the first time in what seemed like days. The interrogation of the restaurant owner had gone very well, in part due to a bit of legal leverage provided by Lestrade. Watson was impressed, but most importantly they’d gotten the location where the owner’s thugs had taken the disruptive man.   
  
“Why is it always the docks?” Lestrade asked as the cab bumped along. Watson smirked.  
  
“That’s like asking why dog like bones. It’s a transportation network, not just of goods but also information. If you want to find something, learn something, or get away from something, your best bet is the docks,” Watson answered as the cab drew to a halt. He and the Inspector exited, and Watson wandered off as Lestrade gathered his men.   
  
They very quickly found a dock worker who had seen the suspect come through with two other men and board a boat, but the worker wasn’t sure which way they’d gone on the river. The spent the next four hours questioning workers at the nearby docks, but no one had seen or heard of the rough man, or his escorts.   
  
“At least we know they got on a boat.” Lestrade tried to comfort Watson. “They could have just dumped him over the end of one of the docks and no one would have been wiser.” Watson shook his head.  
  
“Unlikely they would have done that anyway, Inspector. Too obvious.” Watson sat down on a crate, lacing his fingers under his chin. His bad leg was exhausted from all the walking and in a bad need of a rest. “It’s much more likely they’ll have thrown him off the boat after going down current a bit. That way the currents will pull the body-” He closed his eyes for a moment, stopping as he remember whose body they were potentially discussing. Lestrade pressed his lips together in sympathy.  
  
“I’m sorry. I’ll give you a moment. The boys and I are headed back to the cabs anyway: there’s nothing more to be learned here. We’ll meet you there, Doctor Watson.” Lestrade took his leave and Watson stared out over the Thames. It almost looked pretty at this time of day, with the late afternoon sun hitting the waters at a soft angle, making it glimmer. Watson couldn’t help but think what was hidden beneath those sparkling waves. He let his attention fade into the slowly washing waves, hoping to hit upon some brilliant revelation.  
  
“Difficulties, doctor?”  
  
Watson started, jerking his head up and turning to see the source of the voice. A cold hard object pressed against his head and he stopped, frozen.   
  
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, doctor.” The press of a gun barrel was unmistakable. Watson pressed his lips together.   
  
“The Yard is going to see you. They’re right around the corner.”  
  
“Oh I know. I also know they’re busy being harassed by one of my agents. They won’t be along looking for you for several minutes yet. I have you all to myself, Doctor John Watson.” The weight behind shifted briefly as Watson felt the figure sit down on the crate with him. Then the cold, low voice returned.   
  
“You’re such a loyal dog, Doctor Watson. It’s very hard to find people as dedicated as you are. Nearly all of my subordinates work under the threat of death, but you... you work for admiration only. Like a good pet, Holmes gives you barely enough attention to keep you begging for more.”  
  
Watson could barely restrain himself from turning and smashing his fist into the offending voice’s face, but the harsh press of the gun against the back of his skull brought him back to reality. He clenched his jaw, his face twitching and shaking. He didn’t say anything. He refused to play the man’s game.  
  
“Hmm. Silence. Another admirable trait. I must say, I have recently acquired an assistant as dependable as you, and I do so like it. An assistant so close to you and the Yard. So skilled in what he does, untraceable even. An expert in crime, in fact.” The voice crooned close to Watson’s ear. “Every clue you have found has been by my own design. My assistant has ensured that neither you nor the police have found even a single other shred of evidence. Keep playing my game, Doctor. That is, if you ever want to see Mr. Holmes again.” The weight of the other body lifted slightly as the man stood once more, though the gun still pressed against Watson’s head.  
  
“To find Mr. Holmes, you’re going to have to find the killer,” the man hissed, pressing the gun fiercely against Watson’s head to hold him still. “Stay seated for ten seconds, Doctor, or I will blow your head right off your body.” The shadow moved away, lifting completely. The gun left Watson’s head.  
  
“Oh, and so sorry to hear about your housekeeper,” the man added in a light, fading voice. Watson spun despite himself and caught sight of a black coat slipping behind a crate. Before he could move a shot rang though the air, and a mixture of heat and pain blazed across his temple.  
  
The Yard, drawn by the gunfire, found him a moment later curled on the ground, grasping the side of his head.   
  
“What a lucky miss you got there Doctor Watson... an inch more and you’d be dead!” Constable Clark cried, leaning down and offering to help the doctor up. Watson ignored the gesture. He propped himself up on an elbow, and pulled his hand away. Blood shone black on his glove.  
  
“It wasn’t a lucky miss,” he said, licking the corner of his mouth. He tasted copper, and swallowed. He looked up where the man had gone, but saw nothing. The harbor was empty. “It was a warning.”   
  
Lestrade rounded the corner a moment later, and Watson retold the encounter for him. They were about to send several officers to scour the docks for evidence when a deputy came running towards them, his face ashen with bad news.  
  
“Sirs, you must come to the Yard immediately. Something… Someone left something.” Lestrade and Watson exchanged looks before leaping into a cab.   
  
As they rode downtown they prodded the deputy for more detail but he refused, his mouth clamped shut. Watson knew it had to be something from the kidnapper and murderer; the timing was too precise to be coincidence. Whoever it was had know the Yard would be understaffed this morning, which led him to believe that whoever was responsible had many fingers manipulating his players. Watson couldn’t go around accusing every member of the Yard of being a spy, but it gave him even more reason to distrust the law on this case. Lestrade saw the look on his face and Watson knew he was thinking the same thing.   
  
“Doctor Watson, you know you can trust me,” he said, but it was more of a question than a statement. Watson’s cold look did not assure him.   
  
“I’m sure distrust is what our suspect aims to brew,” Watson replied. Lestrade didn’t answer as to whether or not it was working; he could tell that much on his own. “He is clever,” Watson added. Lestrade crossed his arms and regarded the doctor silently for the rest of the ride back.  
  
When they arrived they were quickly ushered into the mortuary, where Doctor Newbury stooped over one of the metal examination tables. On it lay a dress. Watson’s hand jumped to his mouth involuntarily and he gasped. Newbury looked up at him, lifting an eyebrow.   
  
“I take it you recognize the dress,” he said, running a hand gently along one sleeve. Watson nodded, drawing closer. “Let me guess then: it belongs to your housekeeper?”  
  
“Yes. Mrs. Hudson. It’s hers,” Watson replied, taking in the ghastly sight. There was a two-inch cut in the fabric of the stomach, and the dark tell-tale stain spread from there in an oval shape. Lestrade uttered apologies as Watson examined the rest of the dress. “When did this arrive?” Watson asked.  
  
“We sent out the deputy with the message as soon as it came, so not very long ago,” Newbury replied. He turned to the table behind him, picking up a small box. “And it wasn’t alone.” The box had been opened, and Watson tipped it to peer inside. He immediately closed his eyes and groaned, setting the box down. Lestrade slipped in and looked for himself, crying out when he saw what it was.   
  
“A tongue,” Newbury said, stating the obvious. “Though not necessarily from the same victim.” Watson shook his head, looking down at the dress.  
  
“I can’t believe this.” Watson ran his fingers over the cut in the fabric. “This doesn’t seem right… Look at the slit; it’s got a slight bend in the middle. A knife wouldn’t do that, but scissors would.”  
  
“She was stabbed with scissors?” Lestrade asked doubtfully, and Watson shook his head.  
  
“No, and that’s my point. This cut was made when the dress was lying flat. It’s hard to get a straight cut with a pair of scissors when you bend the fabric in half,” he said, pinching the fabric of the dress to show them. He looked back down and shook his head some more. “And the bloodstain is perfectly symmetrical. Even if the person had been prostrate when stabbed, the blood would have trickled down the side, not in a perfect oval like this.” He ran his hand through his hair for a moment before slapping the table in anger. “But that’s downright sloppy. Why would they go through the effort of cutting the dress and pouring blood on it like that? Why not just kill her?”  
  
“Because maybe they can’t bring themselves to do it,” Lestrade said, his voice quiet. “Perhaps because they know the victim too well.” Watson glared at Lestrade.  
  
“Detective, I promise you that if Holmes had done this, he would have been careful enough to avoid all of the mistakes I just noted.”   
  
“Unless he wanted us to notice them, and to come to the conclusion that she wasn’t really killed, and thus know it was his work.”  
  
“Why the hell would he do that?” Watson cried, storming around the mortuary.  
  
“As a warning, Doctor Watson. To stay away, or he may actually carry through with it. He did cut out _someone’s_  tongue, after all,” Lestrade said, motioning to the box. “If not Mrs. Hudson’s.”  
  
“No!” Watson said emphatically. “I refuse to believe Holmes had any part in this!”   
  
“Except for the notes he’s been writing, of course,” Newbury piped up, the sarcasm audible in his voice.   
  
Watson froze, rooted to the floor. He brought his hands to his head, trying to take deep breaths and calm his racing mind. This wasn’t Holmes’ doing. It was too obvious, too gauche. There was no subtly in it! Just brash bullying and threats. He turned to the two of them, his fists clenched at his sides.  
  
“Gentlemen, I will say this one last time. Sherlock Holmes is not a murderer. And if he were, I assure you that no one in London would be able to catch him. He knows the criminal mind, he knows the ways of the law, and he knows his own techniques. I doubt any one of us would even have a clue if Mister Holmes decided to go on a killing spree.”  
  
“I’m afraid that doesn’t help your case very much, Doctor Watson,” Newbury replied. Watson turned eyes of steel on him, but he didn’t seem phased.   
  
“Why not?” Watson asked, taking a step towards the coroner. Newbury tipped his head to the side, crossed his arms and met the doctor’s advance.  
  
“Because Mister Holmes also knows  _you_ , Doctor Watson. And I think he knows just how hard you’ll work to defend him. You’re just a puppet.” Their noses were mere inches apart now, and the tension was thick in the air. “You’re dancing exactly the way he wants you to.”  
  
“That’s enough Newbury!” Lestrade barked, breaking the silent battle. Watson’s moustache twitched and he turned away, looking up at Lestrade.   
  
“I have work to do,” Watson said, brushing past the Inspector.   
  
“Where are you going?”  
  
“To the funeral home where Miss Stoner’s body is being kept!”


	6. Chapter 6

 

CHAPTER SIX

_He loses track of time as he fights to free himself from the handcuffs. The water has risen significantly in the past few hours. He can’t tell if it has sped up or not. It’s up to his chin now; he can’t sit up any higher because he’s still shackled to the ground. The heavy falling water drums against his skull through the burlap bag, numbing his brain. He fades in and out of consciousness, passing out momentarily and forgetting what he’s doing until his head slips under the water and he thrashes awake, only to set himself again to the task of squeezing his hands out of their bindings._   
  
_The water soaks the coverings over his head, making it hard to breathe as the water clings, trying to crawl into his mouth and nose. He tips his head backwards, vainly trying to keep it out of the water, but it has almost claimed him. Then finally a breakthrough: his left hand slips free of the shackle. Both hands are released from the floor of the cell and he surges to his knees, throwing his hands out in front to catch his fall against the closest wall._   
  
_The rushing sound of water begins to slow to a trickle as he presses his head against the wall. He reaches up and pulls the heavy burlap sack off his head, then reaches behind his head to untie the gag, pulling it down around his neck. He sweeps away black hair and casts dark eyes around his surroundings. It is a dimly lit place. The water stops completely as he looks through the darkness. He sees where he is now, but it answers no questions._   
  
_Close around him are four walls, three made of incredibly thick glass and looking out into an even larger room, built of stone with no windows. The light comes from a few sparsely placed lights on the outer walls. There is a door in the large room. The cell he inhabits is one third full of foul, freezing water – likely piped directly from the Thames, he figures. The back wall of his prison is stone, like the rest of the larger room. He looks up. The top of the cell is open! He eyes it for a moment, and makes a jump._   
  
_Pandemonium ensues as his fingers slip away, mere inches from the top of the cell. Before his feet touch the bottom a loud clamoring heralds the start up of mechanical movement, and the ceiling above the cell begins to descend, trapping him inside. He barely has time to register this defeat before the lights go out, plunging him into darkness once more._   
  
_There is a moment of silence and the cold water laps gently around his legs, sloshing with waves caused by his leap. Then, with another loud creak the water begins pouring in once more. He presses his face and hands against the glass, hopelessly closing his eyes against the pure black._

_~~~_

WATSON RODE TO THE funeral home, fuming silently. He knew something had been missed, a detail glossed over. It always was, but normally he had Holmes to show him the error of his ways. Holmes wasn’t here now, so he would have to do his best and check the body again, thoroughly this time.  
  
When he arrived, the head attendant Doctor Marco, who was an old acquaintance, met him. Marco greeted Watson warmly, shaking his hand.  
  
“Good evening Doctor Watson! What brings you here?” Marco asked.  
  
“I need to see the body of Miss Stoner, if I can,” Watson replied. Marco’s face tightened.  
  
“Oh Watson, you know I shouldn’t.” Marco eyed Watson suspiciously. “Why do you want to see her?”  
  
“I worry I may have missed something during my autopsy. If I can take a second look –”  
  
“I’m afraid you won’t be able to see very much. She’s already dressed.”  
  
Watson sighed and ran a hand through his hair, looking rather despondent. After a long moment, Marco pressed his lips together and finally acquiesced.   
  
“Well… I suppose I can show her to you, at the very least. But no touching!”  
  
Watson smiled and nodded, following Marco into the back. Miss Stoner’s body was held in a small back room adjacent to the alley. A small window was cracked open to keep the air fresh, with the side effect of making the room quite cold. Watson glanced over the body, his hands tucked in his pockets for warmth. Sadly, Marco had been right. Watson was unable to glean any helpful information from the poor woman’s body. He decided to ask Marco if he’d noticed anything unusual, and the mortician’s reply left Watson knotting his eyebrows together.  
  
“Oh, nothing out of the ordinary for the victim of an autopsy. Had to sew her up on the back and the front; I’ll never understand what you doctors are looking for or why it takes so many holes to find it.”  
  
Watson thanked Marco and took his leave, hopping back in the cab and heading back to Scotland Yard. He couldn’t quite place his finger on it, but something Doctor Marco said had caused a stirring in his mind. He decided to review the case files that he and Newbuy had compiled.   
  
He sat down in an empty office to review them. Newbury had done a very good job, Watson noted. _Very thorough indeed,_  he thought to himself. The chap was brash, but perhaps he had some good in him. Watson idly flipped through the first few pages written in Lestrade’s small, scrawling handwriting, not really paying attention until something suddenly caught his eye. He was in a section of the notes he’d never seen before. They were written in a different handwriting; Newbury’s, he assumed, and had clearly been written after Watson and Lestrade had left to check on Mrs. Hudson. At first he couldn’t spot what it was that had bothered him, so he read the page again, slowly.  
  
 _“Posterior: No notable large wounds. Small surface abrasions on left scapula indicative of a fall after disrobing. Subdermal haemorrhaging on left scapula, same cause as above. Old scars likely from childhood pox –”_  
  
Watson stopped and read it again, lingering on the first sentence. “No notable large wounds on her back?” he said out loud and scratched his head, trying to figure out why that seemed off. Then Marco’s words came back to him.  _Had to sew her up on the back and the front._  “Back and front?” He stood, holding the stack of papers in his hands as he headed down the hall. He slipped into the mortuary, looking for Doctor Newbury. The doctor was there, attending to another body - a case unrelated to Watson’s current obsession.  
  
“Newbury… Did you see any large cuts on the Miss Stoner’s back during the rest of the autopsy?” Watson asked.  
  
“Hm? No, Doctor Watson. I would have logged it,” Newbury replied, nodding towards the autopsy notes in Watson’s hands.  
  
“And you didn’t create any during your search?” Watson continued, flipping through the pages as he stood there, in case he had missed a notation. Newbury shook his head. Watson looked up and frowned. “Then why did the mortician say he had to stitch up her front and her back?”  
  
“I haven’t got a clue, sorry Doctor.” Newbury said with a shrug.  
  
“Thank you, Newbury.” Watson nodded to him and left, his mind racing.

~~~

The entire ride back to 221B his mind mulled over the possibilities, but he kept coming to the same conclusion. He had to see the body again. A wild idea ran through his mind. It wasn’t so far from something Holmes would have done, he thought to himself. He grinned to himself as he mounted the steps to their flat. He hung his hat and jacket up and settled down to spend a quiet evening at home.   
  
A few hours after sunset, a furtive figure slipped into the alleyway behind the funeral home. After waiting for a few minutes, the shadow jumped up, fingers barely grasping the bottom of a window frame. Watson slipped off after a few seconds with a quiet curse before searching the alley for a box or crate. Having procured a milk carton, he climbed on top and this time, easily gripping the window frame, he managed to pull himself up and slip inside.  
  
He landed quietly on the floor inside the funeral home. Everything was silent, and after another long pause he stepped forward. He pulled from a sack on his back a small oil lamp and lit it, setting in on a nearby table. Miss Stoner’s body lay before him. He carefully tipped her on her side and undid the back of her dress. A piece of paper fluttered out of her dress and landed on the floor. He picked it up and gasped.   
  
 _Still Trying Unsuccessfully? Please Idiot! Do Watch All The Spelling On Note._  
  
It was another note written in Holmes’ handwriting. He didn’t have time to ponder its meaning at the moment, although he smiled ruefully at the insult. He shoved it in his pocket and turned back to Miss Stoner’s body.  
  
He sucked in a deep breath as he saw it: a large, carefully made cut on her lower left back. Even with the mortician’s stitches Watson could still tell the cut had been made posthumously. He shook his head in amazement. It explained perfectly how the large glass container had made its way into the woman’s stomach. What it didn’t explain was why Newbury had either failed to note it… or why he was trying to cover it up.   
  
Watson was determined to confront Inspector Lestrade about it in the morning, and after making his way back to 221B and changing into proper sleeping garments for the first time in three days, he fell into a fitful sleep, feeling certain he was drawing close to the true answer to the case. He left the second note on his desk. That, he decided, he was  _not_  going to show to Lestrade. He would deal with it after he’d spoken to the Inspector and gotten back the first note.

~~~

“I need to see the first note, Lestrade.”  
  
“No, Doctor Watson” Lestrade said as he crossed his arms. It was the next morning, and Watson stood in Lestrade’s office at Scotland Yard, in the middle of having a standoff about the first note. Lestrade wanted to know why Watson needed it so much, and his reservations grew when Watson refused to explain further. Lestrade now refused to let him have any more access to the evidence. They’d argued back and forth for several minutes until Watson finally sighed in frustration and decided to switch tactics.  
  
“Your coroner may have a hand in this, Lestrade.” Watson said, tossing the autopsy notes and his own descriptions of the dead girl’s body onto the inspector’s desk. Lestrade glanced down at them and then looked back at Watson pointedly, clearly expecting the doctor to explain himself.  
  
“When I went to the funeral home and talked to Marco, he mentioned having to sew up the body front and back. But the autopsy notes don’t mention anything about a wound on Miss Stoner’s back, and when I asked Doctor Newbury himself he said he didn’t know anything about it.”  
  
Lestrade looked displeased. “Well, perhaps your mortician friend is slightly confused. He has seen several bodies over the past few days.”  
  
“I know he’s not.” Watson pressed his lips together, not knowing whether or not it was worth the risk to tell Lestrade about the second note, or where he’d gotten it. The inspector quirked an eyebrow, and Watson tried to press on.  
  
“He himself checked her back, Lestrade! And he didn’t see the need to mention to mention a gaping hole? I watched him during the autopsy; his face didn’t even flicker. He knew it was there! He purposely had me stand on the opposite side and assist so I wouldn’t see the hole. And he was the one who removed the bottle from her stomach, likely to hide the fact that there was a perforation in that, too!”  
  
Lestrade shook his head and picked up the stack of notes, dropping them into the box of evidence from the case sitting next to his desk. “You’re fishing for ways to accuse my staff because Mr. Holmes is our main suspect.”  
  
Watson shook his hands in frustration. “I don’t need to fish, it’s blatantly obvious! Why didn’t he mention it when I wondered out loud how on earth such a large container made its way into the woman’s stomach? More conveniently, he oh so kindly volunteered to finish the autopsy so you and I could go check up on Mrs. Hudson.” Watson paced for a moment in the inspector’s small office. “And on top of that, he purposely left it out of the coroner’s report!”  
  
“Watson! Enough.” Lestrade slammed his hand down on his desk. His face softened slightly as Watson jumped, and he continued, quieter. “Just as you trust Holmes, I must trust my staff. Newbury has been a godsend these past few weeks, and I can’t suspect him based solely on your word.” Watson opened his mouth to protest, but Lestrade cut him off. “Your heavily biased word. Until you have some proof, I can’t accept this as anything but a wild theory.” Lestrade ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I’m sorry to do this Watson. Consider yourself officially off this investigation.”  
  
Watson was silent for a few moments as he considered the possibility of revealing his late-night visit to the morgue. Finally he decided: he couldn’t risk losing the second note or being imprisoned by the overzealous inspector.   
  
“You won’t let me look at the message from the bottle then,” Watson stated, looking back at Lestrade.  
  
“No.”  
  
“I won’t take it, I’ll stand right here in front of –”  
  
“No.”  
  
“I have to save Holmes!” Watson shouted, at the edge of frustration.   
  
“And I have a duty to catch him!” Lestrade roared. They stood mere inches from one another and glared, heat on both their faces. Lestrade backed away first and shook his head. “Our goals are at odds, Doctor Watson. I’ve said my piece. Now get out.” He walked to the door of is office and opened it, looking back at Watson.

“Lestrade, please…”  
  
“Out, Watson!”  
  
“At least give me my notes from the autopsy –”  
  
“Get out before I have you arrested as an accessory!” Lestrade shouted again, and several of the officers in the main hall turned and stared. Watson’s face was screwed up with fury as he snatched his coat from the back of Lestrade’s chair and stormed out of the Yard.  
  
Lestrade followed, and watched the doctor throw open the doors to the main lobby, barreling past several officers and constables in his rush to leave. The inspector sighed and brought his hand to his face, rubbing his eyes. He hadn’t wanted to do this, but… Doctor Watson was becoming too large of a liability. They needed to solve this case, and with the doctor being the way he was, Lestrade couldn’t trust him anymore. He noticed several of his constables staring at him.  
  
“We’re working over time now boys. Doctor Watson is not to have any access to case data concerning the current murders. Don’t even let him in the building.” Lestrade spun around, still feeling the eyes on his back, and returned to his office. The Yard could handle this; he hadn’t even planned on bringing Holmes or Watson into this in the first place. All they’d managed to do was lose several days of investigation. He stared down at the box of evidence on the floor of his office.  
  
“Alright then. Let’s show them how Scotland Yard handles things.”


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

_The darkness proves helpful in at least one way: it blocks off his last sense, leaving him isolated with his own thoughts. The roar of water fills his ears, his skin is numb from the cold, his nose and mouth are filled with the foul stench and taste of the water, and now at last he is blind as well. He presses himself hard into one corner of the cell, as far from the pounding spray as he can get, and thinks. There’s nothing left for him to do except think._   
  
_His memory trickles back in flashes, disconnected and confusing. He remembers writing something, a note. To Watson? It was something so obvious. He would never write something that simple. There was a woman, and a voice speaking to him, and a dress. Why can’t he remember clearly? Amnesia, likely caused by a concussion, he thinks dully. He tries not to think about how dangerous a concussion can be, and wills himself to focus._   
  
_He remembers being told he has no choice. He sees the woman, and he knows her. And the dress. There is weeping, and then it suddenly stops with a scream, and then there is gurgling that eventually stops as well._   
  
_He presses his hands against his face and tries to stop remembering._

_~~~_

Half of Scotland Yard seemed to have squeezed into the small conference room, listening intently as Lestrade held a meeting to brief all the officers on the current case.  
  
“This case has priority. I don’t care what you were working on. This is your main case now, understood?” Lestrade laid out on the table several folders full of evidence, coroners’ reports, and eyewitness statements.   
  
“We’ve got two dead women, one unidentified. The other has been identified as Miss Helen Stoner. She was a client of Mister Holmes before her murder. We are currently operating under the assumption that Holmes is in some way connected to this case. At worst, he’s our main suspect.”  
  
There was a collective gasp through the room, which Lestrade ignored.  
  
“A third woman is also missing and assumed to be related to this case, Mrs. Hudson, who is the landlady for Mister Holmes’ apartment. As far as we know, she seemed to suspect something and was taken away to keep her from revealing key evidence.”  
  
He pointed to drawings of her dress and the tongue.   
  
“She may be dead, or severely injured. We can’t confirm either.” He pulled out the first note and the glass vial it had been found in.  
  
“We also have this note, penned in Mister Holmes’ hand. It was found in Miss Stoner’s stomach. Its taunting nature and the severity of the crimes suggest someone with intimate knowledge of the law, anatomy and crime, making Mister Holmes a prime suspect. The first woman was dismembered. Mrs. Hudson counts as our third victim, and the tongue may be hers, or possibly from a fourth woman. A note found in her apartment suggests Mrs. Hudson is still alive.” Lestrade tossed the second note onto the table. Then he inhaled slightly, and added what he’d learned from Watson that morning.   
  
“I have been led to believe the first note contains a code of some kind. Deciphering it is a main priority, because I think it can lead us directly to Holmes. Gregson, you and I will be focusing our attention on the note." Gregson nodded. "I want your regular team to investigate current reports of missing women and see if any of them have a past connection to Sherlock Holmes.” He paused to let everything sink in. Most of the officers looked shocked, and several looked a bit green. “I don’t think I need to impress upon you the importance of timing in this case. Our killer is already way ahead of us. You’re dismissed.”  
  
Two hours later, Lestrade and Gregson were leaning over Gregson’s desk, staring in frustration at the encoded note.  
  
“There's got to be some kind of explanation for this,” Lestrade said with disappointment, crumpling up another failed attempt at deciphering the note and tossing it into the trash.  
  
“Or maybe it's just Holmes leading us in circles,” Gregson said dryly, leaning back in his chair.  
  
With a sigh, Lestrade slapped down the file folder of case data on the desk and leaned his head in his hand, his elbow on the desktop.   
  
“I just don't get it! There's got to be something here though,” he repeated, picking up the note in his fingers. "Watson was desperate to get this note. It must contain something important." Lestrade stared at the note for another few moments until there was a commotion from the main lobby. Against the pull of several constables a couple burst in, a middle aged man and woman, looking distraught in an upsettingly familiar way. The woman lunged from the constables' grip and launched herself at Lestrade.  
  
“You have to listen to us!” the woman cried, throwing her hands at the desk and latching onto it, holding herself up as if she were drowning.  
  
Lestrade sighed sharply and placing his hands heavily on the desk in front of the woman, who was now sobbing uncontrollably. The constables caught up but stood back at Lestrade's look. He looked intently at the woman.  
  
“We are very busy right now. What do you need?”  
  
"Please. Our daughter is missing," the man said, coming up and placing his hand on the woman's shoulder. Lestrade pressed his lips together.   
  
"You wouldn't happen to know Sherlock Holmes, would you?"  
  
"Yes, he helped us a few years ago."  
  
Lestrade looked to Gregson, who nodded.   
  
“Number four,” said Gregson. Lestrade looked back towards the woman.   
  
"We're already on the case, madam."

~~~

Early afternoon light filtered through the narrow streets of London, casting a golden glow on half-melted snow and slush as cabs slowly rattled along the cobbled streets. It was nearly three o’clock now, and Constable Clark was finally being allowed to leave the Yard to get a bite for lunch. He nearly slid down the snow-packed steps in his haste before rounding the corner, pressing close to the smooth stone wall. As he slipped out of view of the Yard proper, an arm darted out of an alley and pulled him in before he had a chance to react.  
  
“Don’t yell,” came a rough voice.  
  
“Who do you thi– Doctor Watson!” Clark gasped, stifling himself with a gloved hand. The doctor smiled grimly in response, his eyes darting to the entrance of the alley.  
  
“What are you doing here sir?” Clark hissed, pulling on the doctor and dragging them deeper into the alleyway. Watson looked down the alley before answering; making sure no one was near by.  
  
“Clark, I need your help.”  
  
The constable sighed heavily, already shaking his head. Watson raised his hands pleadingly, blocking Clark’s path as he tried to leave.  
  
“No! Please, wait. Just hear me out. I can find Holmes.”   
  
Clark stopped and regarded Watson warily.  
  
“Why are you telling me this, instead of Inspector Lestrade?”  
  
Watson pressed his lips together and looked to the side uncomfortably.   
  
“He doesn’t exactly trust me at the moment,” Watson replied, looking back at Clark. “That’s why I need your help. I need a piece of evidence from inside the Yard. I’d go myself, but… That’s where you come in. You don’t even have to get me the original, just a copy will do.” Watson spoke quickly, trying to convince Clark before the constable could say no, but Clark just shook his head.  
  
“I’m not even supposed to talk to you, Doctor Watson. I can’t help you,” he said, trying to push past the doctor once more. The two struggled for a moment, Watson trying to hold him back without actually laying his hands on the constable, whilst Clark tried to force his way around. Finally Watson spoke, surrendering as Clark’s hand clamped strongly against his shoulder and pushed him out of the way against the wall of the alley.  
  
“I’ll tell Lestrade everything.”  
  
Clark paused again, holding back another deep sigh. He tipped his head to the side, clearly expecting more.  
  
“…But? Come on, I know there’s a string attached.”  
  
Watson leaned his head back against the wall for a moment, looking up at the gray clouds and gently falling snow.  
  
“You have to give me a head start.” Watson reached up and grabbed the constable’s arm as Clark pulled away, shaking his head once more. “A day! Just a few hours, even! Enough for me to get to Holmes and –”  
  
“Obscure all the evidence? Watson, I can’t do this.” Clark pulled away and strode down the alley, not looking back. He didn’t want to see Watson’s broken face or the way his shoulders were sagging as the snow slowly settled on his dark jacket.  
  
He turned back as he heard sudden quick foot-falls behind him, just in time to catch Watson barreling down the alley at him. They collided, and both fell out of the alley into the main street, Watson shouting loudly.  
  
“I need to find Holmes, Clark!” the doctor was yelling, and Clark struggled beneath him, trying to gain purchase and shove Watson off. Several other officers saw the scuffle and came running, slipping on the slush and ice. Watson leapt off and made for the alley, but was quickly overcome by the two officers. A third helped Clark to his feet, and he stared in stunned silence as Watson was cuffed. The doctor gave Clark a meaningful look as the officers walked him up the frozen steps. The officer at Clark’s elbow looked on, shaking his head.  
  
“The man’s gone crazy,” the officer said. Clark nodded, and went to remove his helmet. He felt something odd and looked down to find a packet of folded papers shoved into his jacket, tied with a bit of twine. He glanced back up, but Watson was already being shepherded inside. He pulled the papers out of his jacket and pulled open the twine, reading them quickly. His eyes widened and he folded the papers back up quickly, looking down at the officer beside him.  
  
“I should go check on him,” Clark said, shoving the papers back in his pocket and going up the steps. He wasn’t hungry anymore.

~~~

It was several hours before Clark was able to make it to Watson amidst the flurry of action inside the Yard. It seemed as if every officer made it his business to stop by the doctor’s cell. They’d put him in the last cell at the end of the staircase, down a long damp hallway. Clark stood at the top of the stairs and waited, fingering the packet of papers in his jacket. He hadn’t told anyone, not even Lestrade. Finally things calmed enough down stairs for Clark to slip up next to the bars with no one nearby.  
  
“Hello, Clark,” Watson said, standing up from the chair inside the cell and leaning back against the bars. “Sorry about the tousle back there.”  
  
“No apologies needed, doctor.” Clark sighed deeply, keeping his eye on the stairs leading down into the cell block. Sure it was clear, he pulled the packet from his jacket and opened it, skimming the pages. “I read your notes. I can’t believe it… Newbury?”  
  
Watson nodded, reaching through the bars, one hand bumping against Clark’s hips as he grabbed the notes, flipping to a specific page. “The evidence against him is as strong as the evidence against Holmes. If he’s not the murderer, he’s at least deeply involved in this. I need a copy of the first note, Clark. Can you get it for me?” Watson handed Clark the notes back.  
  
Clark nodded this time, taking the packet and glancing at it for a moment before folding them back up. “I will, but how are you going to help Holmes from here?” he asked, turning slightly to look at Watson. The doctor smirked and raised his eyebrows hopefully, staring straight at Clark. The constable inhaled, and sighed a bit helplessly. “No, Watson, I can’t…”   
  
Watson nodded and chuckled. “I know. Don’t worry about it.”   
  
Clark left shaking his head, and Watson made a show of sagging back down into the chair. He slipped his hand into his pocket and smiled, feeling Clark’s keys jangling around his fingers. He’d have to make a note to send the constable a thank you note when this was all over.

~~~

Upstairs, Clark slipped inside the room being used to house the evidence in the Holmes case. He made sure to close the door completely, and debated locking it, but decided not too. It would attract more attention than him just being in here alone.   
  
He rummaged through the piles of scattered papers, finally finding the file that contained the first note. He pulled a piece of paper and a pen from his jacket, leaning down and copying the note quickly. Watson had said to preserve everything about the note’s grammar. He was focused intently on his task until he heard the doorknob turn. He fumbled in a panic and the pen skidded across the table. He turned to the door and flinched involuntarily.  
  
  
“Lestrade!” he gasped, “sir,” he added with a small nod. Lestrade stood still in the doorway for a few seconds, taking in the scene. Clark flew back into action after a moment, desperately trying to straighten up the evidence table, sliding the folder with the first note inside under a larger stack of papers, trying to hide his own copy under his hand.   
  
“I wasn’t expecting to see you up here, sir. Just, looking through the files myself – ” He cut off as Lestrade walked to the table, slipping the folder Clark had been trying to hide back out from under the stack of papers, quirking an eyebrow.   
  
“Yes! Working on the note, I know you said it was very important and I thought perhaps I could work on it myself, at ah, home,” he added as Lestrade pointedly looked down at Clark’s hand still covering the partial copy he’d made. Clark picked up the copy, folding it and making to put it in his jacket, but Lestrade beckoned for it, and Clark handed it over with a sigh. Lestrade finally spoke.  
  
“I think you’ve worked hard enough on this case for today, constable,” Lestrade said slowly. “Caught Watson on your lunch break, I heard.” Clark nodded miserably, his shoulders sagging. “I don’t think you actually had a chance to eat, did you?” Lestrade slid the copy inside the folder and tossed it back on the table. He looked back at Clark, who nodded.   
  
“Go home, Clark.”

Clark’s head shot up and he opened his mouth to protest, but Lestrade raised his hand. “Clark, I’m giving you the evening off, no questions asked. You will leave, right now. Understood?” Clark struggled for a few moments, and then just sighed in defeat.   
  
“Yes, sir.” He stepped around Lestrade, who turned and followed as Clark got his jacket from his office, gathered his things, and made his way to the front doors.  
  
“Enjoy your evening off, Clark.”   
  


INTERLUDE

  
_One of the things he cannot seem to remember is how long he has been here. He tries to judge by hunger and thirst, but he has never been one to eat or drink much while on a case, so his judgment in that regard is untrustworthy. He had finally been unable to avoid relieving himself, but there was water everywhere at this point, and to be quite frank the brief warmth had been welcome. The water has risen to an alarming height, now lapping at his shoulders. He will have to start swimming soon. He has recalculated how much time he has left, and it is hours. Seven, to be precise. In those seven hours he has decided he will recall why he is here. He refuses to die confused and baffled._   
  
_He is Sherlock Holmes. He is the most brilliant man of his time, and he will not let a little water and cold and a slight concussion or the fading effects of a sedative ruin his finely honed faculties._   
  
_He was on a case, a murder. That explains his clothes. He knew where the killer would be. He met the man… He can’t remember who – move on. What happened next? A flash, then he was outside, surrounded by large men, dragging him down towards the water. Panic, and a tall man in a dark hood and cloak. A shorter man in white. Pain in his arm – that must have been when they drugged him. It gets harder to think from there, but he remembers writing several notes at gun point, and a woman screaming, threats that if he doesn’t comply there will be more… Someone he knows. He refuses, calls their bluff, but they weren’t bluffing. A dress, more screams, and then… and then it all goes black with finality. That must be when they hit him, knocked him unconscious and chained him in here._   
  
_Well then. He can work with that._


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

The hours ticked by, and the scant light that trickled down into the jail yard faded. Watson had long since given up on Clark returning with a copy of the note – not that he could blame the constable. Clark was an upstanding man of the law. Watson doubted the man had broken a rule in his life, even in grade school.   
  
The wardens’ patrols had trailed down to once and hour, and Watson finally slipped around the chair to the door, flipping through Clark’s keys one by one, trying each in the lock with growing worry. He reached the end of the ring and made a strangled noise, shaking the keys in frustration. He took a few deep breaths and knelt, setting to the task again, trying each key once more. He was nearing the end again, his brow creased in fierce concentration, when he heard unexpected footsteps. He looked around the lock and saw a pair of trousers. He tipped his head up and couldn’t stop the grin on his face.  
  
“Clark!” A moment later he realized he still had Clark’s keys clutched in his hands, and he stammered out an excuse. “Oh! Ah, I was… just… This lock is very strong! Good workmanship!” He said, patting the lock and standing, pulling on his vest to straighten it and attempt to look respectable.  
  
“Only the best for Scotland Yard,” Clark replied with a dry smile. “Now, may I have my keys back?”  
  
Watson handed the key ring back sheepishly. “None of them worked anyway.”  
  
“Those are my house keys.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Clark chuckled quietly, pulling a second ring of keys from his jacket pocket. He was dressed in plain clothes, with a thick scarf wrapped around his neck and a deerstalker cap pulled low over his face. Watson shook his head with an amused smile as Clark opened the lock to his cell.   
  
“This is greatly appreciated, Clark,” Watson said as the door swung open. Clark closed the door quickly, slipping both sets of keys back into his pockets.  
  
“We don’t have a lot of time. I’m supposed to be in my office looking for my keys.” Clark said, giving Watson a meaningful look. Watson hung his head with a grin and slipped around the constable, climbing the stairs out of the jail yard. Clark followed, speaking when they reached the top of the stairs. “Lestrade took me off the case.”  
  
Watson turned, his jaw dropping slightly. “I’m so sorry. Clark, you didn’t have to come back. I’m not worth losing your job over.” Clark patted Watson on the shoulder.  
  
“I read the papers you gave me intently Watson. I’m convinced; Holmes needs your help.”  
  
“We both owe you favors, now.”  
  
The pair made their way upstairs to the evidence room, carefully avoiding the officers still working on the case, even this late at night. Clark ran interference as they neared the hall the evidence room was in, catching a fellow constable off guard and allowing Watson to slip around the corner. As Watson headed down the hall he heard Clark leading the other constable off, asking for assistance in searching his office for his missing keys.  
  
Watson tested the handle on the door to the evidence room, and found it to be unlocked. It was a lucky break, but it worried him. He slipped inside, searching through the folders and files for the first note or Clark’s copy of it. He turned suddenly as he heard steps in the hall, but he didn’t have anywhere to hide as the door swung open, a figure silhouetted in the doorway.  
  
“Tut tut, Doctor Watson.”  
  
“Newbury,” Watson replied with a hiss. “I thought I smelled the stench of corpses.”  
  
“You’re hardly in a position to throw insults, doctor,” Newbury replied, amusement in his voice, “especially when I’ve got something you need.” Watson held his tongue, and Newbury pulled a small folded note from the pocket of his white jacket. Watson tried to feign innocence, but his heart pounded in his chest.  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
“You know what this is.” Newbury unfolded the note and pretended to read it. “The constable has terrible handwriting…” Watson lunged towards Newbury quickly, but there was a sudden flash of metal that froze Watson in his shoes.

“Hold your place, doctor,” Newbury sneered. Watson raised his eyebrows.   
  
“I’m already trespassing in the Yard,” he said, trying to reason with Newbury, taking a small step forward. “All you have to do is yell and an officer will be here in seconds. Killing me is a little unnecessary, don’t you think?”  
  
“Where’s the fun in that?” Newbury said with a grin. “I’d much rather kill you inches away from what you’ve been searching for. It’s much more satisfying than watching you rot in a cell.”  
  
Watson slid forward a few more inches as Newbury spoke, and was almost in arm’s reach when the coroner suddenly cocked the gun, glaring.  
  
“Back up! In fact, take a seat.” Newbury gestured across the table at one of the far chairs, and Watson slid backwards, sitting down with reluctance. Newbury folded up the note and tossed it down the table. It landed in front of Watson, and Newbury nodded, pointing with the gun. “Go ahead, you can read it. I want to see your face when you realize…” He broke off, laughing to himself for a moment, and then his face shifted to anger as Watson stared at the note nervously. “Read it!” he demanded.   
  
Watson picked up the note, watching Newbury the entire time. He unfolded it, and then couldn’t help himself and looked down, carefully scanning the first letter of each word and putting the message together quickly. It read,  _“I am in the basement of the second house.”_  His mouth parted and he looked up at Newbury in shock in time to see the coroner nearly giggling with glee, squeezing the trigger. Watson ducked, slipping from the chair, the note falling from his fingers. As he fell he saw a dark figure fly through the door of the evidence room and tackle Newbury with a nightstick. The shot rang through the room, deafening Watson for a few moments. In the chaos the intruder, with a deerstalker cap pulled low over his face, pulled Watson to his feet and they fled.   
  
The sounds of shouting from downstairs slowly filtered into Watson’s ringing ears as they ran down the hall. Clark turned and pushed Watson around a corner, heading back up the hallway to intercept the incoming officers. Watson skidded to a halt at the back stairwell and heard Clark shouting to the other officers, directing them back to the evidence room to help Newbury and telling them he’d take care of the fleeing suspect. Then Clark was rounding the corner again, waving at Watson to go down the stairs. They went together, exiting the Yard in the back alley but not stopping until they’d gone several blocks, following the less traveled back streets. Finally they stopped, coming to rest against a brick wall, panting for breath.   
  
“We need a cab,” Watson gasped, his hands resting on his knees. “First to the telegraph office. We need to alert Lestrade. Then the farmhouse. The second house you found a body in. That’s where they’re keeping Holmes.” Clark nodded and stumbled out of the alley toward the main road. A few minutes later he’d managed to procure a hansom, and they slipped off into the night.  
  


INTERLUDE

_Treading the water is easy at first. He’s managed for nearly an hour, but exhaustion is quickly catching up to him. Now he tries to move as little as possible, depending on his inflated lungs for buoyancy, dropping under the surface to rest for as long as his breath can hold. He uses these moments to test his lung capacity, counting nearly to sixty before surging off the bottom of the cell and gasping for air. There’s nowhere to grip on the sides of the cell, just smooth glass, and after another hour he’s trying to desperately cling to the smooth glass, to find any friction at all to help him keep his head above the water._   
  
_When his head bumps against the top of the cell is when panic first courses through his veins. He’s too scared now to even dip below for a rest, because he doesn’t know if there will be any room left to breathe when he comes back up. His muscles fire rapidly, and he is quickly depleting the last of his energy reserves._   
  
_He wastes precious breath now, whispering quiet, helpless pleas, but there’s nothing he can do to stop himself._   
  
_“Please – Watson. Please…”_

They arrived at the small farmhouse several hours later. Watson had stared out the window resolutely the entire trip and responded with monosyllables to Clark’s inquiries, and the constable had finally given up and lapsed into silence. When they arrived, Watson wasted no time in paying the driver before slipping up to the abandoned house. As Watson worked at the door, Clark looked back down the long road they’d taken. A mile or so off he thought he saw a faint light.

“That couldn’t be Lestrade already, could it?” he asked, but Watson ignored him as the door finally swung open.  
  
Clark followed the doctor inside with a lamp as Watson flew upstairs first, taking the steps two at a time, checking something on the wall in one bedroom before heading back down to the ground floor and then down into the basement. The doctor walked around every corner of the basement and then thought for several minutes in silence before finally speaking.  
  
“This is a rather small basement, wouldn’t you say?”  
  
“What do you mean sir?” Clark asked, startled out of his own thoughts.  
  
“The foundation of the building is much larger than this little cellar we’re in. And look at this pipe, see how it goes into the wall? This pipe is new, Clark. Are you telling me none of you noticed this?”  
  
“Well to be honest sir, I wasn’t looking at the pipes,” Clark said, baffled. He stepped over, raising the lamp and looking at the pipes.   
  
“You should have. This place has been abandoned for years, yes?” Watson asked, and Clark nodded. “So then… why is the water still running?” Watson asked, running his hand along the pipe. Clark’s eyebrows knotted together. He realized they were clearly in use, slightly damp with condensation.  
  
“How on earth did you notice that, sir?”  
  
“I saw it when I was here the first time, actually. I was upstairs, and the wallpaper was peeling. I thought perhaps it was a hidden panel, but instead it was due to a pipe. A pipe with running water in it,” Watson said, excitedly. He began to pace.   
  
“It didn’t occur to me as odd at the time, but when I deciphered the first note it made sense.” He stopped and spun, turning to Clark. “Someone has been using this house as a meeting place. That’s why the water’s running.” Watson’s eyebrows knotted together thoughtfully. He pulled over a milking stool and stood on it, putting his ear against the pipe. “An awful lot of water is running.” He stepped off the stool and ran his eyes and hands along the wall into which the pipe disappeared.   
  
“There might be a room over there, if we could just find a way in.” Watson thought heavily for a moment and then dropped his eyes to the floor. “Bring the light over here, Clark. And stay back a bit; don’t get too close to the wall. I may have destroyed what I’m looking for already. Blast it…”  
  
Clark did as he was told, though he hadn’t a clue as to what Watson was looking for. Finally, in the corner on the opposite side of the wall from the pipe Watson shouted with joy.  
  
“Yes! I knew it! Well, I didn’t know for sure but I was very hopeful –”  
  
“What is it sir?”  
  
“Look at the floor. See how the dirt is scraped in a quarter-circle shape? There’s a door here. And it’s been used recently.”   
  
Clark raised an eyebrow and was about to speak to congratulate the doctor, but he turned, as there was a sudden crash from upstairs. Clark shoved the lamp at Watson and was halfway across the cellar before the doctor managed to call out to him.  
  
“Clark!”   
  
The constable spun, drawing his revolver.   
  
“You go on ahead Doctor! I’ll take care of whoever’s upstairs.” Watson nodded after a moment, and pushed against the wall. There was a click, and a portion of the wall suddenly swung outwards on silent hinges. Watson slipped inside and shut the door behind him, sealing off the sound of Clark’s feet mounting the steps of the cellar. It couldn’t muffle the sudden startled shout or the sound of gunfire, but Watson pressed on, slipping down stone steps that seemed to run parallel to the wall he’d just come through.   
  
The passage was narrow, and a dull rushing noise grew louder as he descended.

 _There is barely any room now, and even tipping his head back affords him only a few inches of room for his nose and mouth. He doesn’t know which is going to claim him first, exhaustion or drowning. His kicks have become uncoordinated and wasteful, just instinctive twitching that presses his face against the cold metal closing him in. The water continues to pour in, creating small waves that lap at his mouth and nose, prematurely filling them with water. His breath quickens until he’s nearly hyperventilating, growing dizzy as his nose bumps against the ceiling, and now even his eyes are below water as he fights for the last inch of air –_  
  
Watson finds the end of the stairs and comes round the wall, swinging the lamp, trying to see anything in the absolute gloom. He can hear a loud rushing of water, and the lamp glints across a large, reflective surface. He walks up to it slowly at first, unsure as to what its purpose is.  
  
 _He manages to suck in one last gulp of air before giving up and sinking beneath the surface. Below, there is light, and a figure. He drifts down to meet it. He’s heard there is always a messenger to take you into the light. His is here._  
  
“Holmes!”  
  
The lamp crashes to the floor as Watson presses himself up against the glass, horrified to see Holmes floating in the murky water. At first he thinks Holmes is already gone, but them the detective presses his own hand against Watson’s through the glass –   
  
 _\- And there is an expression of pain and acceptance on Holmes’ face. Watson? Dear John was to be his guide to the thereafter? Did that mean John was dead, too? Had the orchestrator of his own kidnapping succeed in killing John as well? He gazes at John apologetically._  
  
Watson frantically tears his gaze away from Holmes’, running around to the far side of the cell, trying to figure out how to drain the water, lift the heavy metal lid, anything to free Holmes. He looks at the glass and knows it’s too thick to shoot through, but decides to try anyway.   
  
 _An unexpectedly loud noise shatters the quiet peace he had been feeling, jarring within him a semblance of life. His lungs have begun to burn now, and he realizes Watson is not just guiding him to the afterlife. John is here, now, trying to rescue him. His eyes widen and he pounds against the glass, wasting precious oxygen. Watson presses against the glass again, and Holmes begins mouthing words, gesturing to the side of the cell._  
  
Watson turns back to the gear box controlling the entire death trap next to the cell itself. Heavy gears seemed to be connected to the large chain on the top of the lid, but there is no lever or switch to control it. Holmes has swum over, and begins pointing, gesturing wildly at the smallest part of the assembly. Watson turns to Holmes.  
  
 _But he can't stop his aching chest anymore as his breath begins to leave in bursts. He tries to stop himself but the panic finally takes over. He shoots to the top of the tank and claws desperately at the lid, but there isn't any air left. Pain erupts in his chest as his diaphragm expands, sucking in twin icy lungfuls of water, making him cough up the last remnants of air as black spots and bright flashes fill his vision. And then everything is black and calm._  
  
“Holmes!” Watson cries again as the detective's body goes limp, and does the only thing he can do: he shoots the gear assembly. Metal and sparks fly, but it seems Holmes had been right, as the gears suddenly spin backwards, pulling on the heavy chain and raising the lid off the cell. Not thinking, Watson drops his gun, steps back a few feet and flings himself at the ledge of the cell, fingers grasping the metal edge, wet with water that is lapping over the edge. He pulls himself up, mindless of his shoulder, which will surely ache in the morning. He has no other thoughts except one word.  
  
 _Holmes._  
  
He slips into the tank, grabbing his friend’s limp form, surging back to the surface and draping his arms over the edge, his head at last out of the water. He holds Holmes’ body up, clinging to the edge himself, unsure as to what to do next.

“Watson!” a voice calls down the long hidden stairwell, and a moment later Lestrade appears with another lamp, leading a contingent of officers. “Oh god, Holmes,” his voice drops at the sight.   
  
Together with Watson’s help the officers and Lestrade pull Holmes over the edge of the tank and lay him gently on the floor. They next help out Watson, who immediately falls to Holmes’ chest, pressing on it fiercely again and again, forcing out the water. He bends his head down and pinches Holmes’ noise, forcing in a lungful of air before straddling him and pressing vigorously on his diaphragm. The officers stood by tensely as Watson worked, not even daring to breathe at the sight of Holmes gray and waterlogged on the dirt floor of the basement.   
  
Watson bends down to breathe into Holmes’ mouth a second time, and there is a sudden, violent shaking of the detective’s body. Watson leaps off him and rolls him to his side as a frightening amount of water exits his mouth with large coughs and gagging noises. Watson holds his head up off the ground slightly as Holmes continues to cough. A great deal of tension in the room has dissipated, and Lestrade looks around at his men, waving a few of them off.  
  
“I’ll give you a few moments,” Lestrade says, looking a bit uncomfortable. He wants to stay, but with how he’s treated the doctor over the past few days, he thinks it may best if he leaves. However, Watson shakes his head.  
  
“Stay, Lestrade. It’s fine,” Watson says, still cradling Holmes’ head, gently rubbing his back. He looks up briefly then, a new panic in his eyes. “Clark! He ran upstairs and I heard gunfire –”  
  
Lestrade nods, raising his hand to calm the doctor. “The constable is fine. Doctor Newbury, on the other hand…” Lestrade gives Watson a look of apology. “I got your telegram. Everything was there in your notes. I’m sorry I doubted you. When I got to the Yard to arrest Newbury he was already gone, having taken after you and Clark. We followed as quickly as we could. I’m so glad…”  
  
Watson nods with a soft smile. “Thank you, Lestrade.”  
  
“I’m still so sorry, Watson,” Lestrade apologizes again. There is a quiet pause. Watson never takes his eyes off Holmes, even when talking to Lestrade. Holmes is stirring now, trying to push himself up and to speak. Watson tries to comfort him but the detective is resolute.  
  
“Side – door – ” Holmes rasps, still having a hard time swallowing enough air to fill his lungs. He waves weakly with one hand, and Watson looks at Lestrade. The inspector walks to where Holmes is gesturing, and with the aid of his lamp finds a door previously hidden in the gloom. He opens it cautiously, and stifles a gasp. It is a small room, not much more than a closet. In it lies Mrs. Hudson, gagged and bound, ragged but alive and looking very, very grateful.


	9. Chapter 9

EPILOGUE

As Holmes regained his breath he began telling Watson and Lestrade his tale. They had brought him upstairs where it was warmer and wrapped him in blankets, burying Watson as well, who cradled the detective, sharing his warmth. No one questioned the arrangement. Watson was currently trying to get Holmes to drink a cup of tea but he kept batting it away, his voice rough but quick, although he had to stop every few minutes to cough up lingering dredges of the Thames.  
  
“I’m glad you discovered it was the coroner; my efforts would be quite fruitless otherwise. I had planned to meet him in the restaurant a few nights ago, but he was ready for me. He had me removed from the establishment by hired men. They drugged me on the pier and took me to this house.” Here Holmes paused with a dark frown, and Watson managed to get him to drink a few sips of the tea.

“The first woman was of course already dead. The second, Miss Stoner… they were in the process of ‘displaying’,” he said with disgust. “I believe they meant for me to see, as my mind was not right from the drugs. They sat me at a table and forced me to write.” He paused and looked at Watson. “I sincerely hope it didn’t take you very long to figure out the code. It was so simple I nearly refused to write it.” He lifted his left hand and displayed his pinky, which now that he was out of the freezing water and the contortions of drowning, seemed to be rather broken. “I didn’t even remember until much later. The drugs and the water numbed it up nicely but I supposed it must have been quite the motivator at the time.” Watson winced and gently took Holmes’ hand, listening as he continued.  
  
“They kept me locked in the closet you found Mrs. Hudson in for several days. I believe they –” Holmes cut off again, taking another sip of tea and suppressing a cough. After a long pause, he spoke again, quietly. “They made me watch, Watson.”  
  
Watson sucked in a breath and waited for Holmes to continue. The detective pulled himself into a tight ball, nearly lost beneath the blankets.  
  
“The third and fourth woman. They killed them in front of me. The fourth, they cut out –” Watson cut him off, seeing the pain on his face and how he was struggling to maintain his composure. He wrapped his arms around Holmes, and the detective sagged into his arms.  
  
“We know, Holmes. It’s all right. We know what happened to them. You don’t have to describe it.” Holmes was silent for several more minutes then, and the constables and officers around them continued to clean up the scene.   
  
Watson hadn’t left Holmes’ side even once, refusing to let anyone else carry the detective up the two flights of stairs or sit with him, huddled beneath the blankets to share body warmth. Watson had positively glared at Lestrade when the inspector had prompted Holmes to tell them what had happened, but the detective had been willing to talk. Now, the doctor and detective sat quietly, and Lestrade left them alone.  
  
Much later, when Watson was absolutely sure Holmes was fine, he let Lestrade arrange for a cab home. The detective slept the whole way there, waking only when Watson nudged him to exit the cab. He barely made it up stairs before collapsing on the settee, falling into a much deeper, much needed sleep. Watson covered him in blankets. Then he sighed and sat on the floor next to him, leaned his head against Holmes’ hip, and fell asleep too. He woke briefly in the middle of the night to find that Holmes had scooted down the settee and draped and arm over Watson’s shoulder. Watson smiled and closed his eyes again, forever grateful to feel Holmes’ warmth once more.   
  


THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the ending of this is horribly rushed. Perhaps someday I'll rewrite it and include some actual H/C. But this thing took me, originally, about 9 months to finish!


End file.
